After Soraya left the room with Damien's cloak, the corridor fell silent—then gasps rippled like fire through the guards and maids. Eyes widened, jaws dropped, breaths caught. Not one of them had ever imagined seeing another woman draped in the King's cloak. Not even Luna Cordelia herself had dared. Damien's belongings were sacred territory, his garments untouchable, his personal space a law none dared violate. Yet here she walked, the lowly slave princess—or so they thought—gliding with effortless elegance, wrapped in the velvet and gold that had belonged only to him.
At the far end of the corridor, a figure stood frozen. Soraya's eyes instinctively measured her: the woman wore a deep purple corseted gown, rich fabrics layered with gold embroidery, posture straight, expression sharp. Royal, maybe even noble, or a courtly favorite. Soraya didn't know who she was. She had never seen her before. And yet, the way she carried herself, the subtle flick of jeweled fingers—Soraya could feel the authority radiating off her.
Their eyes met, and heat cracked the space between them.
Althea's gaze was a storm of disbelief, envy, and hunger. How dare this girl, this lowly slave—blood of royalty or not—look so untouchable, so serene? Soraya felt the weight of it, and for a moment, a strange thrill surged through her, though she said nothing.
The slave who wasn't really a slave, the first to wear Damien's cloak, the first to step into a power none expected her to hold.
Soraya moved with grace that made Althea's expensive gowns feel cheap, her own elegance meaningless. Soraya hadn't flinched. She bore no marks, showed no fear. And worst of all… Damien had shown her leniency.
Althea's thoughts spiraled into obsession, a toxic mix of desire and rage. History could repeat itself—Cordelia had had Damien, and she had been supposed to step into that place. She was the rightful Luna, the Alpha's intended favorite. Yet now… who knew where Damien's favor lay?
Soraya's gaze never wavered as she walked, and Althea's teeth ground together. She wanted—needed—to rip those eyes from her face.
Then the voice cut through the stunned corridor like a dagger, sharp and jagged. "Look at you, little bird," it hissed, each word coated in venom.
Soraya froze. The woman was speaking to her, and she still didn't know her name.
The voice carried the weight of authority, cruelty, and ownership all at once.
Althea stepped closer, "Draped in the King's own skin," she continued, each word a jagged cut. "Do you feel like a Queen, little bird? Or do you just feel like a well-fed dog?"
Soraya's fingers twitched against the velvet, the gold clasp heavy at her throat, but her jaw remained locked. She didn't answer.
Althea leaned in, inhaling, nose brushing the fabric. Her sneer twisted, sharp and cruel. "It still smells like him. But beneath that… can you smell the ash? Or are you too thick-headed to realize what you're wearing?"
With a swift, almost mocking flick, she tapped the heavy clasp at Soraya's throat with a fingernail. "This isn't a gift, you pathetic little bird. It's a shroud. Damien wore this very cloak the night he stood on the walls of your capital and watched the Winter Realm burn. He wore this velvet while his wolves tore the throats out of your brother's favorite knights. I remember seeing him return—the hem stiff, soaked dark with the blood of your people. Your elders. Your friends."
Soraya's stomach lurched. The warmth of the cloak suddenly felt like it crawled with invisible horrors.
Althea's eyes glittered with malice as she leaned closer. "Does the fur feel soft against your neck? I wonder… how many Winterfall orphans cried out for mercy while he stood there in this red silk, unmoved? How many of your kin turned to ash while he adjusted these very folds?"
Her whisper carried pure venom. "He didn't give this to you to keep you warm or hide your nakedness, little bird. He gave it to you because he thinks it's poetic. He wants to see the sister of his enemy wrapped in the same cloth he wore when he ended your world."
Althea continued, "You aren't his mistress. You aren't even a person to him. You're just a living trophy. A piece of taxidermy draped in the weight of your own destruction. Tell me, Princess… tonight, will you dream of him, or hear the screams of your kingdom muffled by his velvet?"
Soraya's gaze blazed brighter, silent fury radiating from her every line. Althea felt it, saw it, and recoiled—not from fear, but from the power simmering behind her eyes.
Althea felt it instantly.
Her breath stuttered.
Her wolf screamed.
Danger.
The instinct hit her so violently she nearly staggered back. Her heart slammed against her ribs as her wolf clawed at her insides, snarling, begging her to retreat.
She had felt this once before.
Cordelia.
Luna Cordelia had carried power like a crown—commanding, effortless, inevitable. Cordelia had made rooms bow without speaking.
But this—
This was worse.
Althea's lips parted, and for the first time, her voice lost its edge. "Lower your eyes," she said—but the command wavered, hollow and thin.
Soraya didn't obey. Instead she stared at her as if she was insignificant.
What are you? Althea thought to herself.
This girl was not a normal wolf.
Whatever slept beneath her skin was not pack-born, not something shaped by moons or bloodlines. It felt older than hierarchy. Older than crowns.
Magic.
A guard stepped forward quickly, bowing low.
"Lady Althea Kaine," he said, voice respectful, eyes fixed firmly on the floor.
Relief flooded Althea like wine.
Power.
She still had power.
Her lips curved into a slow, poisonous smile as she lifted her chin, reclaiming her posture, her authority. She glanced at Soraya smugly—only to find the girl wasn't looking at her at all.
Soraya turned to the guard.
"Take me back to my cell," she said.
Her voice was hoarse from hunger and exhaustion—but beneath it was something new.
Command.
The guard hesitated.
Then bowed—to Soraya.
"The Alpha's orders have changed, my lady."
My lady.
Althea's smile shattered.
"You are to be moved to the West Wing," the guard continued, gesturing down the long vaulted gallery. "The Rose Suite."
The Rose Suite.
Even Althea—Damien's favored mistress—had never been granted chambers there.
Soraya shook her head once, slow and deliberate.
"I prefer the stone," she said coolly. "At least the dungeon is honest."
The guard leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. Sweat glistened at his temple.
"The Alpha was very clear," he murmured. "He said if you were not in that room by the time the moon sets… our heads would follow."
She nodded once.
And began to walk.
She heard Althea say, "You are a ghost's replacement. A placeholder for a dead woman's grief. Enjoy your 'Rose Suite,' Princess. But remember... even the most beautiful roses are eventually crushed to make perfume for the Queen."
Soraya had enough of whoever this lady Althea was. But she could read her like an open book. Just looking at her. She knew her deepest secrets.
"You're afraid," Soraya realized aloud.
Althea's expression didn't change, but her fan snapped shut with a sound like a bone breaking. "I am many things, Princess. Afraid is not one of them."
"You are," Soraya pressed, a small, weary smile touching her lips. "You've spent years waiting for Cordelia to die so you could take that throne. And now that she's gone, you find that the Alpha would rather spend his night with a 'slave' from the North than with you."
Althea's was shocked.
H...how did she know?
Her hand shot out, grabbing Soraya's jaw, her nails digging into the skin just as Damien's had.
"Careful," she whispered. "The Alpha might protect your life, but he doesn't care about your beauty. I could carve that pretty face of yours into ribbons, and he would likely thank me for saving him the trouble of looking at you."
"Try it."